


Like Sleep Without Dreams

by Tawryn



Category: Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: Alien Biology, Choking, Dubious Consent, Horror, Humiliation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, POV Second Person, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle Sex, Time Loop, Xenophilia, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tawryn/pseuds/Tawryn
Summary: When you’d signed on, you’d known the truth. Given half a chance, space would gladly try to kill you.You just hadn’t expected the same from inside the ship.
Relationships: Crewmate/Impostor (Among Us)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 100
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Like Sleep Without Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kryptontease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptontease/gifts).



> Thank you to the lovely [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose) for the beta.

* * *

_“What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark?  
It would be like sleep without dreams.”_

* * *

There had been nothing wrong with your planet, but the machine of industry clamored and you’d answered, headed like so many others out into the deepest dark. The biospheres, the terraforming, the asteroid mining, fusion energy, the endless new worlds—all the billboard language, all those alluring promises of what was waiting to be achieved. None of them had mentioned the danger, but you’d known. It’s _space_. How could you not?

The first time you’d looked out into that vast and hungry expanse, you’d given it a respectful nod, understanding it would devour any misstep with pleasure. It was a truth you remembered each time you glanced at the unforgiving black, each time you saw your IVA suit reflected in a window. The universe stood ready at all times. It would always be eager to boil every inch of your green, viscous skin. When you’d signed on, you’d known the truth. Given half a chance, space would gladly try to kill you.

You just hadn’t expected the same from inside the ship.

The klaxon sounds again. It’s unignorable, a blare designed to jolt you down to your atoms. You jump inside your suit for the umpteenth time. It doesn’t matter how many times it goes off, your heart races just the same.

The ship’s oxygen support has been sabotaged. Again. You head toward the Admin room to input the override. You’re careful, taking notice of whom you see and equally, whom you _don’t_ see. You pass Cyan on the way. He’s running in the opposite direction, toward the O2 room, and you cross your fingers, silently murmuring a plea that he makes it in time.

The emergency oxygen is off. Your fingers shake as you enter the override code, breath catching in your throat. When the console beeps, you quickly snap your head toward the doorway. It’s empty. The tension in your chest eases. The klaxon cuts off, and it eases even more. Back to normal. What passes for normal, anyway.

You fix two panels of wiring, rejoining the loose connections, taping the wires together so they hold. The Skeld is not a new ship, and it shows. Some days it feels like everything is held together with spit and prayer. You close the plate, satisfied with your work, and the room plunges into darkness.

“Shit,” you murmur.

You’re sure it’s not the circuitry so you feel around the walls, blindly fumbling for the master lighting station. You bite your tongue when your boot connects with it—the IVA suit doesn’t offer much protective padding—and reach for the reset switches. You’ve got all but one in position when you hear footfalls. The sound of movement startles you, and another crewmember—you hope it is, you really do—jostles you as they reach for a switch. Your irritation blooms as the small green indicators flicker on and off. This idiot has no idea what they’re doing.

You grasp the console, your annoyance building as they try and fail to figure it out. The frustration eventually hits a limit and you shove the crewmate out of the way, deftly flipping the switches into their correct positions. The lights flood on with a loud click, bringing a red-suited crewmember into view. You roll your eyes inside the privacy of your helmet; much of the crew finds Red suspicious, but you know better. No need to attribute malice when stupidity does the job just fine.

The corridor is deserted as you head to complete your last task of the day. The fuel canister is heavy in your hands as you make your way toward the lower engine, but you muscle through it, daydreaming about the rehydrated cyclo-nutrient you’ll be enjoying once you clock out.

You’re careful. You always are. You check your exits and mentally map your escape route, but it doesn’t matter. Your brain registers the suit’s rupture warning before you even feel the pain. It sears—a hot, white punch low in your back. The hiss of air and incessant beeping are almost loud enough to drown out the beat of your hammering heart.

As you turn, you see the Imposter standing, somehow smug behind the mirrored visor, holding a knife covered in your blood.

It doesn’t matter how many times or how many different ways.

They are always the last thing you see.

-

You jolt. The klaxon sounds again.

Purple hovers nearby, his feet tentatively step-stepping toward the corridor and then back in your direction, seemingly asking for an escort. Together, you head to the O2 room, the alarm grating in your mind like gnashing teeth. You sigh in relief as the override input interrupts the siren mid-blare.

“Close one, eh?” Purple says.

It’s always close. “Yeah,” you agree.

You look Purple up and down, wondering if he too could be a fraud. You decide to follow him around for a bit, monitoring how he completes his tasks. He blows up some asteroids in the weapons room and does a decent job at charting the ship’s course, so you’re fairly confident he’s legitimate. A clang-clanging of ductwork has both of you turning to see a creaky vent open and the Imposter emerge.

You lose time.

Within the span of milliseconds you’re in the cafeteria, no idea how you got there. Nine other faceless bodies are staring back, all huddled around the cold metal table. Purple speaks up.

“I saw the Imposter vent,” he says.

The chatter rises. Loud clicks and pops, hisses of breath that your universal translator decodes.

“Where?”

“Proof?”

“Kinda sus.”

“Maybe a self-report?”

The Imposter is directly across the table from you. They seem unworried.

“Anyone else see?” the Imposter asks.

It seems like they’re looking straight at you, their eyes boring holes into your IVA suit, getting under your green skin and tunneling down, down into your soul. Your flesh heats beneath your suit. Your breath comes faster. You should speak up, you know you should, but your mouth hangs open and no words come. The mob has already decided. You know the dangers of going against them.

“Let’s vote,” Red says.

The vote passes nine-to-one. Even you vote against Purple, knowing you’ll be next if you don’t.

“It’s not me!” Purple screams as he’s carried to the airlock. “It’s not, I promise! Don’t do this—I can prove it, please!”

The door slides shut with a hiss. Someone pushes the eject button, and Purple is sucked out into the dark abyss. IVA suits aren’t designed for depressurization, and you think that it’s probably a small kindness that Purple will suffocate first, rather than being boiled to death.

No one says anything in the wake of Purple being spaced. They don’t have to.

Everyone knows the truth: the Imposter is still among us.

-

The klaxon shrieks.

This time, like many others before, you have no corporeal body when it sounds. You float through walls and workstations, passing through them painlessly, insensate. Somehow—and though you’ve got a master’s degree in atomic theory, you still don’t quite understand the physics—your little ghost hands materialize just enough to coax a response from the ship’s touch panels.

You calibrate distributors, clean filters, empty trash. Sometimes you pass other ghosts and you give one another long, meaningful stares.

You leave no unfinished business. Even in death, your tasks still get done.

-

You hear the klaxon’s wail in your dreams. You hear it in your nightmares, your fantasies. You hear it again and again, standing in front of the override panels, struck dumb, not understanding why your keycode won’t stop the blaring—until you realize the sound is coming from inside your skull. It haunts you unendingly. If you disconnect the alarm, will the loop finally end? You think you might be insane enough to try.

But not this time. No, this time when it sounds you make no motion to fix it.

You’ve been doing this dance for eons, so it’s really no surprise that when the zipper goes down the ache in your chest melts away. _Finally_ , you think. What will they do to you? Will you come back?

You shake your head; of course you will. You always come back.

The shadows of the engine room mask your deviance, this rogue task you were never supposed to want. You face the wall. Your hands scramble for purchase on the smooth surface, the very concept of reality dissolving before you. The hiss of machinery muffles the squelch of the Imposter’s slick appendage as it fucks into you. Each thrust pulls you away from the dark and into the light, dismantling everything you are.

“O-oh, god,” you say.

Your heart flutters in your chest as another tentacle snakes up, wrapping around your neck. Your body moves in what seems to be slow motion, fingers dancing along the wall to the sounds of engine fuel splashing around in the combustion chamber as the Imposter fucks you. You are panting. The tendril around your throat tightens, squeezing out a small gasp. A pressure is building low in your gut. Your legs are buckling, your vision swimming at the edges, and you claw at the Imposter.

They make a strange whistling sound. You think it’s a laugh.

A third tentacle finds your genitalia. You moan in desire when it strokes just right, and the Imposter makes that strange, whistling laugh again. Your orgasm is building fast, rising up in a rush as pleasure and peril meld together, and you twist, arching back to meet the Imposter’s thrusts.

You groan when the tentacle stroking your genitalia pulls away. The Imposter lets out a series of clicks.

“Not yet,” your translator interprets.

The coil around your neck loosens as well, and you take the opportunity to suck in a few welcome breaths.

“Please,” you whisper once you can speak again. “Fuck, please.”

Another sticky tendril—just how many tentacles does the Imposter _have?_ —slithers past your lips in response and plunges down your throat. You gag and struggle, or try to anyway, but the Imposter’s tentacles tighten all over. They pin you to the wall, and you feel it everywhere. Their hot, slimy body enveloping you, invading deep, moving between your legs, inside you, into your mouth. You twist and shake, unable to scream as the Imposter strangles and fucks you harder.

The whirr of the automatic door opening seizes your attention, and you stiffen. The Imposter makes a sound of amusement. You respond with a gurgle of distress as they turn you slightly, and you catch sight of your audience. It’s Red. You whimper and try to bow your head, but it’s impossible. The Imposter’s tentacles apply more pressure, forcing you to stare directly at Red.

You’re dizzy and desperate, naked, on display for Red and whomever else might decide to walk in. Your eyes are hot with tears. A sob escapes your throat on the next violating thrust, and you shudder. You’ve never felt more degraded in your life, but the worst element of the whole thing is the obvious truth. A part of you, a not _small_ part of you, is enjoying this.

Red is frozen in the doorway as the Imposter fills you completely, a silent witness to your debauchery, to this ultimate shame. The appendage between your legs drives deeper, stretching you impossibly more around it. It strokes inside you, making your nerves vibrate with pleasure. The tentacle in your mouth retreats and you whimper, soft and reedy. You’re split open. You squirm helplessly.

You want more.

“Please!” you beg.

The Imposter’s hot tendrils hold you tight. They burrow and slide, bringing you to the edge of destruction and pulling you back over and over. You sob in frustration. You deserve this; you crave it. There is nothing you can do but wait for the pleasure to come again. The rush of serenity that comes with finally, completely letting go nearly crushes you. Your mind spins. The tentacle around your throat squeezes, cutting off all air, and the brink rushes up, superheated, a single point of infinite density inside you waiting to explode into existence.

You come with a silent scream, splattering the wall with your release.

The tentacles relax as you sag in their grip, too spent to care about the filthy squelching as they exit your orifices. You wobble on unsteady feet. One appendage guides your shaking hand to a metal handle in the wall, and you shoot the Imposter a grateful smile. The tendrils vanish one by one into the Imposter’s suit until the Imposter is once again camouflaged, expertly disguised. Anonymous.

In the wake of being so filled, you should expect it. But it’s still a surprise to you—the emptiness, the hollow, aching sensation where the Imposter once was. Your mouth goes slack. Your lips part and press together again, unsure of what to say. The Imposter’s visor goes transparent, revealing their alien face, and you realize there’s nothing you have to say. The Imposter knows. They’ve been deeper inside you than anyone else, after all.

One of the Imposter’s many eyes opens and shuts in what you presume is a wink, and then the visor darkens again. The Imposter flees, disappearing down a vent with no more than the quiet scrape of metal on metal.

You suck in an uneven breath. Red is still standing near the door, limbs loose at his sides.

“Wow,” he says. “That—I was not expecting that. Wow. But, uh, thanks for the show, I guess?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, silently wiping your runny nose as you step back into your IVA suit. Red turns toward the wall, presumably to eye the copious evidence of your orgasm that still trickles down in lewd rivulets. Your skin heats with shame.

“I have _so_ many questions. And I’m maybe kind of jealous?” he says, incredulous at either the situation or his own covetousness. It’s hard to tell—the universal translator isn’t great at nuance. “Is this, like, a regular thing?”

You shoot him a scowl before putting your helmet back on.

“It’s really none of your business,” you say.

Red holds up his hands. “Hey, it’s cool. I get it. But it sort of looked like you were being fucked into another plane of existence so, I mean, you can’t blame a guy for being curious.”

You sigh. Clearly, Red is going to be a problem.

“You know what they say about curiosity,” you warn.

“Satisfaction brings it back?”

A dull pounding is beginning to form behind your left eye. You turn away, ignoring Red’s continued chatter, and check your surroundings to be sure you’ve gathered all your equipment. Red follows you around the engine room as you rack your brain, trying to come up with a solution. And then you see it. There, lying under the engine’s intake ducts, you spot the small black handle of the Imposter’s knife.

You smile, slow and wicked beneath your helmet.


End file.
